


What We Bring

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Bioluminescence, Body Paint, Exhibitionism, F/M, Paint Kink, Public Sex, Seadwelling Trolls (Homestuck), Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: There are so very many things that you so desperately need to burn with. Why should anyone be surprised that this is one of them? It's in your blood, after all. She's told you so.





	What We Bring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sartorially](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorially/gifts).

> "→ Honestly, Dirk is **so painfully tyrian-coded that it isn't even funny.** He's got all the necessary shit to be considered a tyrian, people assume he's the leader, and his Tier is literally fucking fuchsia. Come on. This guy is all up in the spectrum. Move over, bitches.
> 
> **Feferi wanting to coddle and keep this exotic wild-eyed man is just... delicious.** He's so busted up and mangled, so easily spooked but **so desperately wanting affection.** She could **drape him in fine fabrics and keep him safe**, pretty, **pretty bird in a jeweled cage.** He'd **snip and snap** at her but he **responds so well to shooshpapping** and even better to lazy fucks in cozy piles.
> 
> → **I'm so very down for nook&bulge anatomy, Dirk bottoming or topping, Buckets Of Fluid, and big big big sexual exhaustion.** I'd be delighted to see some focus on alien anatomical differences between Dirk and his powerful bad bitch lover. **Claiming or marking in the form of having Dirk wear fuchsia is... Good.** Bonus points for lots of pretty, pretty, pretty jewelry for her pretty human stud."
> 
> Aight.

He's a pretty little thing, Dirk Strider. The gauziest of fuchsia and golden silks look good on him, and even better so when he's painted in the subtle glow of tyrian luminescence. Pretty thing, even if the biolum paint isn't anywhere near the same hue as his eyes, even if the color can't stretch up to what should be his earfins.

"Oh, you _are_ beautiful, aren't you," Feferi murmurs, her lips moving over that soft, pale skin. "So warm. Inviting! It might be nice to see you wrapped up like a beautiful treat, don't you think? You lovely little thing."

A noise spills out of him, and she traces her fingertips down the curve of his spine like she's awarding him a special treat. "Peixes, you _are_ a tease. Tell me your plans, princess, you know you want to."

Laughter follows, and her lips drag over the same path that her hand took. "I could tell you, but wouldn't it be so much more fun to show you what I intend to do all over your gorgeous body?"

The eyelash flutter that follows is far too practiced, too pretty, to be anything but deliberate. "But I like _knowing_. And you like telling me, don't you?" He presses forward, settling easily into her lap. "You like watching my reactions as I hear every salacious detail of your plans, you _like_ watching the anticipation...get to me."

That much is true, she knows—she's enjoyed the sight of him, both hands and occasionally a toy between his thighs and on himself, too desperate for what he knew as coming to hold back, more than once—but she's also well aware of the delicacy of the plan she's woven for this particular round. "Unfortunately, you're going to have to wait! Juuuust a little bit longer, I promise. Maybe! It might depend on a couple of certain things. You understand, don't you?"

* * *

_—your body curves so easily and you think it might be second nature to bend like a bow like you're trying to shift yourself into a shape to better fit the whole of her bulge, you feel small in her hands for all that you outsize her in height in so many many many things her hands land on your throat and you come hard enough to make you scream and she didn't even press—_

* * *

His eyes gleam as he answers her: "I suppose I do."

She accepts that for an answer, judging by the way she kisses him and leans up to deepen it, and he seems well-pleased with whatever bargain they've struck. Instead of words, her hands go back to moving again, running across the pale skin he bares easily for her, as easily as his neck, his throat, all the soft places of him that (with her, with her alone) he never seems to think to guard.

And even if she's well aware that it's calculated, who is she to refuse such a freely given gift?

* * *

_—she is still in you, she is still moving, and you gasp out again as something in you _twists_ and did she turn you around you don't know when she turned you around but you can't handle being on her lap like this you had your back to the chair and that had been good had been a way to hide even with all of you on display for her but she turned you around and everyone can see you now, you don't even dare lean back against her chest when they can see the sweat run down your skin and mar your glowing markings, the place her bulge is buried deep in you, the tyrian staining your thighs—_

* * *

"So what exactly are we doing, again?" is the first question on his lips, and at a raised eyebrow from her, he's quick to amend it. "Not the exact outline, of course. What are we doing at this moment _specifically_."

Feferi's smile shows off every perfectly pointed teeth, and she tilts her fins, directing his attention towards the spread of papers in front of him. "Why don't you take your best guess? Tell me what you think!"

Dirk Strider, for all the pretty parts he plays, is no one's fool. His fingertips jump from page to page, and the tick of his brain is nearly audible as he compiles all the information available to him. Whatever conclusion he comes to must be a startling one, judging by the way his head snaps right up, the way he stares at his princess, bright orange eyes gone vulnerably wide. "Really?"

"Yes, _reely_." She drops down beside him, looking pleased. His reaction, perhaps, or with whatever plan she's actually wrought. "You didn't think I noticed the way you looked at them? It's well past time."

Emotion like this flusters him; she learned as much early on when he snapped at every little thing. Now he deals with it by dragging his attention off of her, back to the papers before them, his fingertips tracing across the mapped out patterns like that focus will hide the blush staining his face. For a moment, she thinks she might hear the barest whisper, something so quiet and brief—

_Thank you_, she thinks. _That's what it might have been._

But then, he's never needed the words. Not with the way he gives the documents the whole of his attention, not with the way he leans into her.

* * *

_—being put on display for the whole of the court is nothing new to you, but you feel so exposed, now, with your life story written across every inch of your skin, even as her hands and your body wreck and ruin and smear every glorious, delicate, _marvelous_ inch of it, you are hers to claim in this as you have ever been, but oh, oh, for her to do it so publicly, to do it after she had marked you like this—_

* * *

His fascination with biolum ink had started almost the day he'd walked into the seadweller's court, already dressed up as a pretty little plaything, though he didn't yet know his owner. Feferi had been painted in it, the special mixture of chalk and paint and bioluminescent creatures that somehow, even after their oh-so-noble deaths, had enough life in them to link with another organism that managed to bioluminesce. The way the glow brightened whenever her freckles did was enchanting, enticing—and absolutely enviable.

Dirk, after all, was already well aware that such a thing could never be his.

He'd assumed that with all his heart, held it close and fast to taste that bitterness, until the day she'd laid out the exact pages of how he should be drawn. No ending so ordinary as concubine, no, not for him—she'd added in the patterns that left his destiny up to time and tides. She'd all but set him free in writing.

To his mind, she'd all but declared herself irrevocably his.

Only fitting, considering how wholly and entirely he was already hers.

* * *

_—when you come again, you do not pass out, and this time you _feel_ the turn, this time you find yourself facing her, this time she presses her forehead to yours and you wrap one of your hands around her horn and she kisses you so deep you lose the meaning of time itself, and oh is it perfect it has to be it absolutely must, she is so deep inside you that you cannot focus on anything but this, this, this, you feel as if you have been hollowed out, painted over with the marks you once took weeks to learn with the fuchsia that marks you hers, and for moments it is like there is nothing else left in the world—_

* * *

Her hands are steady above his body as she carefully applies each mark, moving as slow as she dares, as if she believes that the first time she'll do this may also be the last. He can't help but shudder, as a trace goes down his spine, spreads out across his back, leaves a soft glow in its wake. She'd promised him that they'd found a way to attune the biolum to him. That it could and would track his heart rate, or his reactions, or his thoughts, or, or, or, _something_—

For once, he'd been too excited and too distracted to investigate.

"Pity we don't have more time," Feferi murmurs, adding another curve that feels like it's carved straight out of his skin in the best possible way, "or I'd do your freckles."

"Next time," he says, and it's a question, almost as much as she hopes her answer will be a promise.

"Next time," she says, and he finally starts to breathe again.

_—is it the third time you've come or is it the thirtieth, either way, she is as unforgiving as the sea and she does not care; she is determined to have you; she is set on carving open every inch of you and leaving you bare, and you want nothing less than that, you want everything she could ever even think to offer, you rock down against her even as your legs give out even as you start to tremble even as she digs claws into your skin and cries your name—_

* * *

At the edge of the throne room, he finally puts together exactly what she'd had in mind for him. It's not the fact that he's in his most revealing outfit (_to show off the markings,_ she'd said) nor the fact that she's almost similarly bare (_I did mine too, see?_). It's that there's an air of anticipation, a _hunger_ to the gathered crowd, that tells him almost exactly what she has in mind.

His grip tightens on hers as she leads him through, trolls and humans slowly parting to make way for them, and he dares to whisper: "You fucking _wouldn't_."

"Try me," she whispers back, and leads him right up onto the platform.

It doesn't quite sink in until she seats him on the throne, and then, well.

It's all rather uphill from there.

* * *

_—and this time you finish together and you can _finally_ see all the places you've painted her with your climaxes, all the smudges and smears and markings of hers that you've ruined, and the flicker of pride burns bright in her soul, even as her arms come up and she pulls you in close; you will soothe and settle for her because _damn_ if that's not something you love to do, but, but, but—_

_—if she thinks you've earned this, then some part of you thinks that maybe, _maybe_, you do too._


End file.
